


O, bright are the jewels

by Caora (Soujin)



Category: The Magnificent Seven (2016)
Genre: Anal Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Rough Sex, super light bondage-y stuff with belts, why tennessee whiskey is better than kentucky whiskey as told by goodnight robicheaux
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-27
Updated: 2016-10-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 07:17:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8392270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soujin/pseuds/Caora
Summary: He's never thought of himself as particularly handsome; he has that skill of charming men whereby demeanor alone can atone for the sins of homeliness. Billy is altogether different. Billy's angular face is striking, his dark eyes like the tang of iron. When Billy sits up to shrug off his own clothes Goody's breath always gets caught in his throat, as it does now.--PWP was next on my list :p





	

Out here, where the only thing to stop him is a sense of shame he doesn't have, Goody likes to sing to his horse -- war songs primarily, since they tend to unspool in his head like fishing line coming off of the reel. If he's ever at a loss for words, which is rarely the case, it's a sure bet that that he's going over Yellow Rose of Texas. The mare seems largely indifferent. Her ears flick forward and back, making sure the noise behind her isn't a command or a warning, and when she decides listening to _Jeff Davis rode a dapple grey_ is none of her business she ignores him and ambles on.

Billy loathes it.

Goody would be lying if he said he didn't sometimes enjoy provoking him. It's not that he particularly likes to think he's irritating Billy, mind, but the aftereffects leave little to be desired.

When they break to water the horses Billy ties his bay to a dry-looking ebano, and swears when he pricks his hands on the thorns. Goody looks away, whistling, and a minute later there are hands on his hips, dislodging his pistol as he's turned around roughly. Billy's a hair shorter, but he gives a damn good impression of someone you've got to lift your eyes to see.

"I thought we talked--"

Goody grins at him. "A hundred times."

"You admit it."

"In spades, in spades. I'm a consummate breaker of promises."

Billy kisses him hard, hard enough to shut him up for the time being. Goody buries his fingers in Billy's hair, pulling the long pin loose, and kisses back. It jolts his bones when they hit the ground -- he's not as young as he once was, not after three years of Confederate rations and battlefield cough, and he knows he'll be bruised by tomorrow -- but if the worst battle scars he has these days are bruises from a good fuck he doesn't have much to complain about. Billy pushes him onto his back and straddles him, pinning him flat against the scrub grass, tugging the buttons of his waistcoat loose one by one.

"You want some help with that?" a little too breathless to be smug. Billy scowls at him, but doesn't push his hands away when he moves to take over, gloved palms sliding down his chest to his belly, rucking his shirt up from his trousers. Goody hisses through his teeth.

It remains, as usual, a good thing he's not given to vanity; the amount of prairie dust that ends up ground into his coat is a plantation man's nightmare. At least he left the tradition of the white suit behind in North Carolina.

In the time it takes for that inane thought to pass him by Billy has laid him open like a field-dressed deer, coat, waistcoat, and shirt parted like the Red Sea. Goody's fingers twist into Billy's hair again, as much to keep it out of Billy's way as for purchase, because Billy is pressing ungentle kisses into the hollow between his neck and shoulder, nipping and sucking his skin. They wouldn't be so bold if they were anywhere near a settlement, but out here there's no one to notice if Billy leaves marks above his collar. Goody sighs when Billy's head brushes against his chin.

It's probably better not to examine why he prefers rough treatment. If Billy suspected there was anything of self-flagellation about it the odds are pretty good that he'd stop; whether he says it or not, he's trying to get Goody to be less goddamn self-destructive. Goody's ridiculous, but he's not stupid. He's noticed.

Not that he's in a way to notice much now. He swears as Billy goes deftly for his belt, unbuckling it with a soft and very gratifying click. Seconds later Billy's hands are in his pants, and, Jesus, Billy's hands are beautiful, are magnificent-- the leather of his gloves is worn soft and supple, and his fingers are long and quick, with just enough callus to get some drag on Goody's prick. His gloves.

"All right," Goody gasps, pushing him back a little. "All right, Jesus, take your gloves off before they're ruined--"

Billy sits back on his heels and laughs, goddamn laughs, throwing his head back. His black hair spills all around his shoulders and Goody is reminded, not for the first time, of something classical or holy, something in Billy that deserves to be painted or sculpted and made immemorial, so that future generations can see what Goody has somehow undeservedly been allowed to touch.  He undoes the clasps on his gloves and tosses them unceremoniously aside, with a faint air of humoring that infuriates Goody in spite of himself.

"Now why the hell am I naked as Adam and you've got all your clothes on?" he demands, which only makes Billy laugh again.

"Naked? You're almost decent."

Goody pushes himself up on his elbows and makes a grab for Billy's collar. His fingers close on cloth and he pulls Billy back down with him, biting at Billy's lip when he kisses him, and that, at least, rekindles the urgency. Billy's hands are back on his skin, with nothing between them now. With Goody still gripping his collar there's no space to do anything but draw that kiss out, teeth and tongues and an argument they've had a hundred times, so many times that Goody doesn't really remember what began it in the first place, only that it always ends here, on the ground, with Billy's weight pressing against his aching prick and Billy's hot breath against his lips.

"All right," he whispers again. "All right."

This time Billy spares him any laughter, and just finishes wrestling him out of altogether too many layers, tugging his coat off and then his waistcoat, leaving him in shirtsleeves filthy with dust and soaked with sweat, whereupon Billy pauses again to lay down kisses across his chest like a bandolier. Goody tries to do more than stare at him in awe and ardor, reaching up to fumble idiotically with Billy's own buttons, and then, when that proves futile, to unbuckle his knife belt and at least ensure that neither of them will be accidentally gutted.

He's never thought of himself as particularly handsome; he has that skill of charming men whereby demeanor alone can atone for the sins of homeliness. Billy is altogether different. Billy's angular face is striking, his dark eyes like the tang of iron. When Billy sits up to shrug off his own clothes Goody's breath always gets caught in his throat, as it does now. He has the slender grace of a catamount -- his bare arms catch the hot sunlight and Goody feels such heat pooling in his stomach that he wonders why he's not insensible. Billy pushes him back again, taking hold of Goody's wrists with one fluid movement and pinning them against the grass.

"Everything?" he asks, lips quirking in a ghost of a smile.

"Of course everything," Goody snaps.

Billy pulls the unbuckled belt from around Goody's waist and wraps it once, twice around his wrists, with enough give that his hands won't go numb, but tight enough he can't get loose. This far out, it doesn't matter what they do. There's no one to hear them, no one to run across them. Billy leaves him tied up and pulls himself to his feet, heading gingerly over to the ebano to rummage through his saddlebags. Goody tries not to go insane. He can't touch himself like this, and there's no telling how much teasing Billy wants to do.

But Billy's feeling merciful, evidently, because he's back before Goody dislocates his shoulder trying to get his hands where he wants them. He crouches down beside Goody, laughing, and puts his hand right in the middle of Goody's chest.

"Impatient."

"And you're about to castigate me for it, are you?"

"I'm about to give you what you want." He shifts his weight and shows Goody the pint canning jar in his hand, full of liquid the color of dirty gold. It's not particularly a surprise -- they saved for it, being enterprising, and having determined that lard was inadvisable early on -- but Goody laughs breathlessly anyway.

"Well, expeditiously, then."

Billy lifts his eyebrows with a considering look, and Goody bites his lip. It seems he may have overplayed his hand. "No, I think… _not_ expeditiously," Billy says, rolling the unfamiliar word around on his tongue. He unscrews the band on the jar and puts it and the lid aside in the heap of clothes, setting them down carefully. His fingers dip into the liquid.

Goody watches as those fingers slowly, slowly reach out and then, Jesus, Billy presses them between his lips, filling his mouth with the musty taste of olive oil. He sucks like it's what God intended for him. Oil smears against his chin and into his beard -- he'll be _filthy_ after this and damned if he cares -- and he strains his wrists against his belt as he feels the fingers of Billy's other hand, equally slick, slide down his chest, painting an unhurried path down to his prick, where they clasp and stroke.

Billy has a gift of impassivity, a gift that serves him well in the quick-draw, or on the rare occasion when Goody sweet-talks him into a card game. Even now, his beautiful face is mild, almost curious as he watches Goody squirm. As if he hasn't done this before, as if he doesn't know exactly what he's doing to Goody. Jesus, as if he isn't the best thing and presently worst thing that's ever happened to Goody-- as if it's not exactly what they both want.

Goody's still sucking when he feels Billy's hand leave his prick, only to come back a moment later, slippery with more oil, to squeeze his balls. He manages to swear brilliantly, even with his mouth full. Billy laughs.

"Don't choke."

His retort, which would have been masterful, is swallowed when Billy slides one finger into him, then a second, almost too much at once, except that he trusts Billy, he trusts him, trusts him enough to relax now so it doesn't hurt, to let Billy open him up -- once again he thinks of a deer dressed out, as though Billy has cracked open the birdcage of his ribs and taken everything of value out, because Billy is carrying every part of him that's good in his saddlebags, where it's safe, and Goody as he remains is an empty cavity that only Billy can fill. He rocks against Billy's hand, still gasping curses, and at long last Billy takes pity on him. The fingers in his mouth knot in his hair instead, pulling his head back, and Billy kisses him hard.

It's enough to spend him. His hips arch up and he comes, with a wretched little cry. Billy's kisses grow softer, rocking him through it until he sinks back against the ground, his ruined shirt twisted up underneath him.

"Good?" Billy murmurs, and he nods; Billy's mouth twitches. "Nothing to say?"

"Don't get used to it."

"Are you finished?"

"No, no, I want the rest. The rest."

Billy nods. A man who knew him less while might mistake it for curtness.

He begins to thrust again, working his fingers carefully, adding a little more oil when he needs it. Goody's beginning to have regrets about the belt, since he can’t get a grip on anything, but he forgets that quick enough when Billy draws his hand away and starts to stroke himself instead.

Every comparison he's ever made between Billy and some Greek masterpiece seems pale beside the man himself, color rising in his cheeks, fingers curled around his prick, sliding the hood back with his thumb.

"Jesus, Billy."

Then Billy is kneeling between his thighs, sliding into him as inevitably as a bullet loaded in the chamber of a gun. He groans the curse this time, but it's good, it's good, and he's grateful as much as anything, because it's the best goddamn way to feel whole. Billy takes slow, steady thrusts, measured as always, which Goody forebears to mention because he knows it won't last. Billy's hair is wild, falls around his face every time he hits home.

Sure enough, soon Billy's panting, the flush spread down his chest. His expression is one of determination, which would almost make Goody laugh if he weren't fully occupied remembering to breathe. It's strange what Billy takes seriously. But that's far from his mind when Billy comes, his body shifting from movement to stillness while it rocks him, his hand clasping Goody's hip hard enough to bruise.

For a little while they just stay there silent. Billy's fingers loosen and Goody's pulse steadies. Then Goody looks up and meets his eyes.

"All right, that's enough, let me up. I've got gravel in my ass and I'm marinaded enough to roast."

Billy laughs.

\---

A week later they're back in civilization, or what passes for it out here. The marks on Goody's neck have faded respectably, although he's complained repeatedly to Billy that his back is still aching. Billy just raises his eyebrows and gives that irritating half-smile.

Goody elects to celebrate the occasion of their first decent night of takings by splitting at least one bottle of Tennessee whiskey. He and Billy pass a cigarette back and forth in the saloon while he expostulates on the Lincoln County process to the unfortunate _vaquero_ who elected to sit at their table.

"A minimum," he says, taking a deep drag on the cigarette before he hands it back, "a _minimum_ of ten feet of sugar-maple charcoal. Do those idiots in Louisville drip whiskey through ten feet of charcoal? They do not. They're still running it on the log like the intellectual disasters they are. If Kentucky ever produced a decent bottle of whiskey, it was an accident of fate and the bottle ought to be preserved for posterity."

Billy empties his shot glass and nudges it towards Goody with his fingertip. Goody refills it for him with a wink.

"Craftsmanship has its seat in Tennessee, gentlemen. Tennessee, a godforsaken state if ever there was one, and to which I intend never to return. The Sewanee is all well and good for college students, but I advise anyone with the sense God gave a whiptail to steer well clear."

His audience looks at him in silence, one deadpan and the other evidently seeking an opportunity for escape. Goody takes pity on the latter.

"Billy, it's time for us to adjourn."

The cowboy looks relieved.

Ten minutes later, in their hotel room, Billy shakes his head, carefully unfastening his clothes. "So we're going to Tennessee."

"Well, I miss it."

Billy reaches over and takes hold of his chin, thumb pressing against the corner of Goody's mouth. "What will you do if you ever lose your audience?"

"I've no intention of finding out." He grins, but Billy's face is queerly sober.

"No," he agrees quietly.

Last week's urgency is gone, as if it had been a brush fire that burned off the dead scrub and left the prairie clean for new grass. Billy pulls off his boots and sets them aside while Goody strips down to his shirtsleeves, pauses to splash water from the basin on his face just to clear some of the whiskey out of his head.

They settle on the bed together and Billy rolls over to face him, stroking the angle of Goody's hip with gentle fingers. He grazes the fading green bruise and makes a face.

"Oh, come now, I mend," Goody says, trying out that rakish grin again. It half works, in that Billy's expression softens and he leans forward for a kiss, slow and searching. His hand slides down to Goody's prick and he starts to stroke, with his usual pattern: up the shaft, circle the head, once, twice, down the shaft, thumb pressed against the underside, firm and even and always, always enough to get Goody hard in moments, no matter what's going on.

He muffles his groan against Billy's shoulder, his hips twitching a little. "Jesus," indistinctly, "a little more, you won't kill me."

Jesus, Billy could kill him. Billy could do anything, and Goody would never be able to say him no. But Billy just speeds up, with a firmer grip. His warm hands make it better -- Goody can remember a time when he had to jerk himself off, with his own thin cold hands, hoping the effort of getting off would tamp down some of his nervous energy (it never really did). This is a hundred miles from that: lying in a goddamn bed, loose from whiskey and tobacco that both their mouths have touched, Billy's knowledgeable fingers tugging him closer to something inevitable and good.

Goody tries to return the favor, though it's an effort to keep his head together. Billy has seen him through the worst of these last few years. These good nights, when he's easy to be around, are far and few between.

They spend in each other's fingers, a mess that's easy to see to. It always makes Billy sleepy, and when Goody offers to cut cards with him he just yawns pointedly.

"Suit yourself." He starts to deal solitaire on the pillow by the guttering lamp. For once his hand is steady when he puts the cards down; nothing chasing him tonight. Nothing in the shadows. He's halfway through the first game when he starts to sing under his breath. " _I will lay ten dollars down, and count 'em--_ "

Billy sits straight up in bed. "If you sing that song again I'll kill you."

Goody shuts his mouth. He's too old for another fuck like that twice in seven days.

**Author's Note:**

> The song Goody is singing is a traditional that I used to hear as a child, and I actually can't find a version of it online. The closest thing I'm getting now is one called "I Can Whip the Scoundrel", but that's not the version I know [yes, i grew up hearing confederate war songs, it's embarrassing, etc etc]. The song the title is from is called Picking Lint.
> 
> Goody's description of the difference between Tennessee and Kentucky whiskey is accurate, but his opinions are his own.
> 
> Olive oil was sold in groceries in 1865, but I couldn't find any historical pricing data so I'm not sure how much it would actually have set them back; I made a guess of middle expensive. Writing this fic reminded me of why I usually write sci-fi, where lube is plentiful and germ-free.


End file.
